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Written for the lovely Laura. I hope you enjoy it, hun :P

At Ease, Soldier

The sun was scorching overhead as John, heavy medical bag in hand, ran across the desert sand, sweat pouring down his face. His men were out here, injured, waiting on him to save their lives; and as fast as he was, it was just never fast enough.

He worked diligently, patching up where he could before he moved onto the next injury, making the best of what he had available to him, while hoping to god that the soldiers would make it back to base, to the hospital where he would perhaps be able to save limbs, as well as lives.

A young man lay on the ground, his legs shifting slightly alerting John that he alive, if not well. He fell to his knees beside the body, taking in all the details he could see. There were a few burn scars on his arms, and it was through one of those that a bullet had passed, leaving a nasty looking graze that would surely be painful, if not life-threatening.

"Hey," John murmured, pulling the arm towards him gently. "I'm going to wrap this, and you need to head back to base, okay?"

The man groaned but nodded his head to show understanding. John quickly cleaned the wound with anaesthetic wipes, before wrapping it first with gauze and then covering it with a bandage.

"You'll be fine in no time," John assured him. He stood, grabbed his bag and looked around for any other casualties. Seeing none, he thought to turn back, waiting for the soldier to stand with him. He'd return to base and put his skills to use there.

A pressure to his shoulder knocked him off his feet before he could move, an indescribable pain leaving him unable to move as he took stock of the situation.

He'd been shot.

No matter that he knew the dangers of war, intellectually, and had seen them time and time again as he operated on bullet wounds, he'd never thought about the possibility of being shot himself. He knew that he'd never allowed himself to think about it, the fear such a thought would bring would be a huge liability out in the field.

But now, now he'd been shot.

The soldier had dropped beside him, and he forced himself to look at the younger man.

"Put pressure on it," he said roughly, fighting the pain that threatened to render him unconscious. "And call for extra help."

The soldier nodded, his own wound seemingly forgotten as he pressed down on John's shoulder. The pain was excruciating.

As the blackness beckoned, John looked to the sky, the words, Please, God, let me live, the last he remembered thinking.

"You look like you needed that," John murmured, amused as Greg drank half of the waiting pint for him in one gulp.

Greg sat beside him at the bar, rubbing a hand through his silver hair. "Donovan is driving me ever so slightly insane," he admitted.

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock?"

"Sherlock," Greg confirmed. "I wish he'd stop baiting her; I'm the one who gets the earache afterwards."

"To be fair, she's normally the one who starts their arguments," John offered, smirking slightly. "Sherlock just happens to be better at finishing them."

"Of course you're going to stick up for him," Greg groaned.

John shrugged. "She picks at him constantly, Greg. If she left him to do his thing, he wouldn't bother with her, so she's kind of asking for it."

Nodding tiredly, Greg took another drink of his pint. "Either way, they both need to give it a rest. I come to work to get a break from the earache, not entertain more of it."

John snorted. "I'd offer to have a word, but we both know that it wouldn't do squat."

Before Greg could reply, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat behind John, and he turned to find a familiar face looking at him with surprise.

"Captain Watson?"

Flashes of a hot desert and a pain in his shoulder flashed through John's mind as he found himself face to face with the young soldier who'd ultimately saved his life by getting him back to base.

And he couldn't remember his name.

"Charlie Weasley," the man introduced himself, the slight blush colouring his cheeks clashing charmingly with the mop of red hair on his head. He'd clearly been back in England for a while.

John nodded his thanks, holding his hand out for the soldier to shake. "It's good to see you again. How are you doing?"

Charlie nodded, a small smile on his face. "It's good to see you again, too, Sir. I'm good, happy to be home and alive."

Turning to Greg, John quickly introduced the DI to the soldier, adding "This young man saved my life." He was very pleased to see the blush darkening.

For some reason, John wanted nothing more than to see that pale skin flushed.

"Can I get you a drink?" he offered Charlie, waving him onto the bar stool beside Johns. Charlie sat, and with a brief inquiry as to what he wanted, John ordered three pints.

"So how did he save your life?" Greg asked, looking interested.

"Captain Watson was working on me when he got shot. I just kept the pressure on the wound and called for help," Charlie replied before John could.

"You saved my life," John reiterated. "You're allowed to feel proud of that."

Greg nodded. "It's certainly something to be proud of," he agreed with John, smiling at Charlie. "How long have you been back home?"

"I finished my tour a month after Captain Watson was sent home, and decided not to sign up for another. My little brother… there was an accident at his school. He died. I couldn't put anymore stress on my parents by putting myself back in danger."

John felt a flood of compassion for the soldier. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Charlie nodded, his eyes on his pint.

Not wanting to see the soldier sad, John added, "What are you doing with yourself now?"

"I'm training to work in the zoo at the moment," Charlie replied, his eyes suddenly alight. "I've always loved animals, the more dangerous the better."

John smiled. He could empathise with the need for danger after all.

Greg excused himself as his phone rang, and John turned his full attention to Charlie, as the younger man asked, "What have you been doing since getting home. Are you all healed?"

"I work with my flatmate, it's… something. He's a genius, and the 'only consulting detective in the world.' He assists the police on cases and I help him."

"You're Sherlock Holmes' John," Charlie said, blinking. "I never made the connection."

John's heart sunk suddenly. Of course the young soldier had seen the blog. He readied himself for a barrage of questions about Sherlock.

A barrage that never arrived.

"You have even more of my respect for helping him, Sir. He's not exactly… a people person, is he?"

"Call me John, please," John replied with a small smile. "And he's not, but… he's my best friend. The occasional caustic attitude is worth it for the rest of it."

Charlie nodded.

Greg reappeared with a glum look on his face, clapping John on the shoulder. "I've been called back in, might be something his lordship is interested in, so maybe don't get too pissed, alright?"

"Thanks for the heads up," John agreed, looking mournfully at his pint.

"Oh, I won't be calling him in tonight," Greg assured him. "I'm thinking about in the morning. Wouldn't want him getting you up at god knows what hour, if you've a hangover."

John laughed. "That would be absolutely nothing new," he muttered. "But I'll let him know when I get home that you might have something for him. It might stop him playing the violin until three in the bloody morning."

Greg nodded. "See you later, mate."

Turning to Charlie, he offered his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Charlie shook his hand, offering a respectful nod. Left alone, the two quickly fell back into conversation, easing away from the subject of Sherlock with shared memories and comparing notes on those they knew from their time in Afghanistan.

The pints flowed, and night fell over London without their notice, until the bartender was smiling at them and calling last orders.

John hopped down from his stool, steady on his legs. He'd drank more than he planned, but not enough that he didn't still have control over himself, and he offered Charlie a smile as they each donned their coats and left the pub.

"I'm this way," John said, pointing left up the street.

Charlie nodded sadly, gesturing right for himself.

"I'd… really like to see you again," Charlie murmured after a moment, his cheeks flushing once more. John could only see it because they were standing directly under a streetlamp. The light was highlighting the red in the young soldier's hair, and his bright blue eyes were shining with nerves.

John was confused for a moment, before it dawned on him that Charlie was asking him for a date.

The words 'not gay' were on his tongue, but he managed to swallow them. He wasn't gay, he hadn't ever lied about that, but he wasn't entirely straight either. His denial usually stemmed from people under the wrong assumption where his relationship with Sherlock was concerned.

"I'd like that," he admitted after a moment. Pulling out his phone, he rattled his number off quickly, waiting for his phone to trill with a text from Charlie before he put it away.

With a final smile, they parted ways, each walking in opposite directions along the street. John's phone trilled again, and he pulled it from his pocket, frowning when he saw it was another text from Charlie. Stopping, he turned around, surprised to see the red head back outside the bar, watching him.

Looking back down at his phone, John couldn't stop the smile blossoming on his face.

I really wanted to kiss you.

John stashed his phone in his pocket and walked back towards the pub, back to where Charlie awaited him.

When he was in hearing distance, John asked, "Do you always wait until you've parted ways with someone before you ask for a goodnight kiss?"

"Nobody has ever made me as nervous as you do, Sir."

John smirked, pulling Charlie closer. "At ease, Soldier. We're on home ground now."

Charlie leant down slightly, pressing his lips to Johns in a chaste kiss.

"Thank you for coming back," he whispered, his breath warm against John's skin.

John pressed their lips together once more, before he stepped back. "Goodnight, Charlie."

"Goodnight, John."

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